by Wilson, Gar
"If they hit us in the airport, they'll pay hell trying to get out of here," Manning commented.
"They'll want to take us to a more isolated area," Yakov agreed. "But don't think they won't open fire if we resist."
"Welcome to Nippon," one of the terrorists standing near the limo declared with a sly smile. "You come in our car. No come, we kill you."
"What weapons we have with us are only good at close quarters," Rafael quietly reminded his friends.
"Hell," McCarter groaned again. "There are too many of them to try to jump the bastards."
"We have to go along with them," Yakov stated. "Just pray they get careless."
Keio saw his four partners approach the limo. He opened a briefcase on the seat beside him and extracted a huge steel pistol with a thick eight-inch barrel. The .44 AutoMag was an awesome weapon. The most powerful autoloading handgun in the world, it could bring down a charging bull elephant with one shot.
Ohara gathered his AutoMag in his right hand, seized the steering wheel with his left and stomped on the gas pedal. The Toyota sports wagon roared as it lurched from the hangar and sped toward the limo.
A "maintenance man" pivoted, saw the vehicle racing forward and quickly yanked a Skorpion machine pistol from a canvas bag. A spray of 7.65mm slugs coughed from the Czech miniblaster's silenced barrel. The small-caliber bullets ricocheted off the shatterproof glass of Keio's specially equipped Toyota.
The Toyota charged into the "maintenance men." Screaming in fear and rage, the terrorists bolted in a desperate attempt to avoid Ohara's ruthless attack. Keio swung the Toyota's nose sharply and slammed into one of the fleeing gunmen, sending the man's body hurtling across the pavement in an awkward cartwheel. Keio swerved and rammed another terrorist. The impact propelled the killer five feet into the air. His broken body dropped onto the roof of the speeding Toyota, bounced off and fell to earth in a lifeless heap.
The other members of Phoenix Force had already taken advantage of the distraction. Yakov raised his right arm and pointed the gloved index finger at the face of the terrorist spokesman. Flame exploded from the end of the Israeli's fake finger and a .22 Magnum mercury-filled bullet tore into the killer's right eye. Blood erupted from the eye socket as the bullet sliced through his brain. The explosive round then struck the back of the man's skull and blew off almost half of the goon's head.
Gary Manning clubbed another terrorist across the forearm with the bottom of his left fist. The blow knocked the man's raincoat and a silencer-equipped Nambu 9mm pistol to the ground. Before the surprised terrorist could react, Manning drove a right uppercut to the man's solar plexus.
The piece of Japanese filth gasped as the wind was knocked out of his lungs, but he still tried to knee Manning in the groin and attempted a shuto slash with the side of his right hand. Moving with uncanny speed for a big man, the powerful Canadian dodged the knee lift and scooped up the terrorist's leg with his right forearm. Manning stepped forward, snaking one arm over his opponent's shoulder and the other between his legs.
The terrorist screamed as Manning suddenly picked him up and turned him upside down in a crotch lift. The Canadian quickly dashed his adversary against the hood of the limousine. The small of the man's back smashed into metal, and the vulnerable fifth lumbar vertebra shattered on impact. He rolled off the car hood and fell to the ground, his backbone broken.
Rafael Encizo took care of another member of the terrorist "welcome wagon." His left hand swept the killer's gun arm toward the ground while his right extracted the A.G. Russell "letter opener" from a jacket pocket. The gunman fired a muted 9mm round at the pavement. The bullet ricocheted and tore a vicious furrow in the terrorist's calf muscle.
The killer opened his mouth to scream, but Rafael struck before the sound could materialize. Sharp pointed nylon punched through the thin skin at the hollow of the terrorist's throat. Blood gushed from his mouth as the man hopelessly clawed at the black handle of the letter opener lodged deep inside his throat.
Rafael did not waste time watching the goon drown in his own blood. He quickly twisted the pistol from the dying man's grasp and threw himself to the pavement. The Cuban had not acted a moment too soon as a limo door opened and another terrorist emerged with a Soviet-made AK-47 assault rifle in his hands. Rafael rolled on his side and aimed the unfamiliar Nambu pistol at the gunman's head. The pistol uttered a choked snarl through its sound suppressor, and a 9mm slug burned a merciless hole under the gunman's jawbone. The bullet cut through the goon's tongue and pierced the roof of his mouth, finding a resting place in the terrorist's brain.
When his partners jumped the trio of killers dressed in undertaker's basic black, David McCarter turned his attention to the two remaining "maintenance men." Both had drawn Skorpion machine pistols and were firing at the Toyota. The terrorists' shots were poorly aimed because they were too busy trying to outrun the vehicle.
McCarter hurled his briefcase at one of the fleeing gunmen.
The sturdy luggage struck the legs of the running man and abruptly tripped him. The Japanese trooper of terror fell flat on his face, the Skorpion skidding away from his fingers. McCarter immediately dashed forward and leaped into the air. He came down, feet first, on the back of the fallen man's neck. The ruthless stomp crushed vertebrae.
McCarter then dived to the ground and grabbed the dead man's discarded machine pistol. He rose to one knee and trained the Czech-made chatterbox on the other terrorist who was still playing tag with Keio's Toyota. McCarter squeezed the trigger, and a three-round burst of 7.65mm projectiles hissed from the silenced Skorpion to rip a trio of gory holes in the center of the terrorist's chest. The gunman's body buckled, and he staggered before he slumped to the ground.
Keio saw one of the doors open on the side of the limo opposite Phoenix Force. He turned the steering wheel savagely to swing his Toyota past the nose of the big black car. The last member of the terrorist hit team had emerged from the limo, clutching a Makarov pistol. He spotted Keio's vehicle and opened fire, crouched behind the open car door for cover.
Keio's Toyota came to a stop as a 9mm round buried itself in the metal skin on the passenger's side of the wagon. The body of the sports wagon was only lightly armored to avoid making it too heavy for adequate speed. Keio jumped out of the car at the driver's side. He knelt behind the Toyota and used the hood for a bench rest, both hands fisted around the big AutoMag.
Few men have the necessary strength in their fingers and wrists to handle such a powerful hand-gun. The recoil is formidable in a weapon that packs enough punch to send a Cape buffalo to Boot Hill. Mack Bolan was such a man and so was Keio Ohara.
The steel cannon bellowed, and a long tongue of orange flame burst from its muzzle. Keio's arms rose with the recoil, climbing smoothly above his head. The big .44-caliber slug struck the door of the limo and knifed through metal as though it were rice paper. The bullet penetrated the door and tore into the terrorist's belly. It severed his abdominal aorta and sizzled through his liver before it blasted an exit hole at his back the size of a silver dollar. One more insult to his Japanese ancestors crumbled to the ground—dead.
"You guys need a ride?" Ohara called to his teammates.
"This sort of thing won't improve the Japanese tourist trade," McCarter growled as he tossed the Skorpion aside and scooped up a discarded Nambu pistol.
"Save it for your memoirs, David," Rafael said gruffly, relieving another dead terrorist of a Makarov. "We've got to get out of here before every cop in Tokyo shows up."
"Too bad we couldn't have taken one or two of the bastards alive," Manning commented as he jogged to the Toyota.
"Hell," McCarter snorted. "We were lucky to keep ourselves alive."
"And staying that way might not be easy," Yakov added, joining the others as they climbed into Keio's car.
4
Ikeda Ken sighed as he poured green cha into small porcelain cups. "Such violence occurred this day," he said sadly. "It is most regrettable."
Ikeda's guests were the five men of Phoenix Force who had assembled in a small office in a communications building on Niju Street in Tokyo. The quaint little office, with plastic furniture, a green carpet and bamboo window blinds, was rented to Kompei under a cover name and served as a safe house for Japanese Intel operations.
"Those terrorists were set up for us," David McCarter declared bluntly. "They knew about the limousine, and they knew every detail about the rendezvous Kompei had arranged for us. That's a bit more than 'regrettable.' "
"So we've both got a problem, Mr. Ikeda," Rafael added. "Your organization has a security leak and we've been burned."
Ikeda frowned. "Burned? I'm sorry. I don't understand."
"It means our cover story is ruined," Yakov explained. "Our enemies have identified us, and our mission here is no longer a secret."
"Ah, I understand now." Ikeda nodded. A small, slightly built man with a round face and horn-rimmed glasses, he looked more like an accountant than the chief of Kompei's Internal Intelligence. "Tea, gentlemen?"
"Douro arigato, Ikeda-san ," Gary Manning said as their host placed the tea tray on a Plexiglas table. When thanking him, Gary had addressed Ikeda as "Ikeda-sir," the most courteous form of address.
The Kompei man bowed in reply, appreciating the Canadian's manners. Manning had dealt with Japanese businessmen in the past, and he realized how important etiquette is in their culture. The Japanese are a polite dignified people.
The Japanese place great value on enryo, a personal code of conduct that emphasizes constraint and reserve. Yet they are an emotional people, moved by simple poetry and subtle colours. They tend to be passionately devoted to their jobs, political beliefs and, most of all, their families.
Traditionally they are an explosive and energetic breed—a part of their nature that is evident in the movies and television programs they favour. But they have a remarkably low crime rate for a country that is so densely populated. This has nothing to do with Japan's restrictions on firearms or other weapons, because gangsters and terrorists disregard such laws in the Orient just as they do everywhere else. Japan simply has fewer criminals and even the Yakuza gangs tend to act with restraint to a degree. Unlawful behaviour is dishonourable and an insult to one's family, which is all-important in Japan.
In 1972 a nest of the major leaders of the JRA was located in an abandoned building in Karvizawa. Police bombarded the terrorist headquarters with tear gas and powerful jets of ice-cold water before storming the building, armed to the teeth and ready for battle. The public applauded the siege. It was a vivid example of how Japan refuses to tolerate terrorism. After all, such conduct is not enryo.
"I share your concern, my friends," Ikeda assured his guests as he sat in a curved-back chair. "But I believe the situation is not quite as grim as it appears."
"The limousine had been sent by Kompei, correct?" Yakov inquired, sipping his tea.
"The arrangements had been made, yes," Ikeda confessed. "But I am certain Ohara-san has explained that he was to meet you at the airport instead."
"Bloody lucky for us he did," McCarter commented as he fired a cigarette.
"Indeed," Ikeda said, nodding. "The limousine was to be cancelled. However, the agent assigned to serve as driver was abducted sometime yesterday. Clearly this is an act by the same villains responsible for the terrorist actions directed against American Intelligence that you have come to investigate."
"We didn't come to investigate," Rafael stated. "We came to stop the bastards—permanently."
"I was informed as to the methods you gentlemen favour," Ikeda announced, smiling. "Officially, my government uses violence only as a last resort. Unofficially, we will do anything to prevent a revival of the destructive activities of terrorism. In the late sixties the Japanese Red Army had almost four hundred members. They were responsible for numerous armed robberies, violent street riots and the murder of many police officers. This must not be allowed to happen again."
"Excuse me, Ikeda-san," Keio said softly. "You say our situation is not as grave as it appears, yet the terrorists abducted your agent and obviously extracted classified information from him. . . ."
"But that information was most limited," Ikeda replied. "The man was simply ordered to meet four Americans arriving on Flight 912 and transport them to Kompei headquarters. We had no descriptions of any of you. In fact, you all seem more like Europeans than Americans. Since you terminated the only terrorists who could have identified you and Ohara-san brought you here instead of Kompei headquarters, you have not been 'burned' at all."
"Perhaps not," Yakov said, "but there may have been an observation team watching the airport from a distance to report its success or failure. That doesn't really make any difference now. We still have a job to do. If the terrorists come out from under their rocks to try to kill us, they'll save us the trouble of finding them first."
"A dangerous tactic, Katzen. . . ah . . . " Ikeda began, fumbling on Yakov's name.
"Just call me Yakov or Katz," the Israeli put in with a smile. "And there is no safe way to deal with terrorists, my friend."
"You realize you will be acting alone," the Kompei chief warned. "We can supply information and assist in certain matters—such as convincing the police that Kompei will take care of the incident at the airport. However, we cannot be actively involved in any commando operations you may choose to conduct."
"That suits us fine," Manning assured him. "Can you add any new information to what we already know about the terrorists?"
"Hai—yes," Ikeda replied, nodding. "A letter was sent to the prime minister's office. His staff sent it to us. The letter was apparently sent by the Red Cell."
"Red Cell?" McCarter frowned. "Sounds like a plasma center. I've heard of the Revolutionary Cells in West Germany, but I didn't think they'd ever gotten involved in any operations outside of Europe."
"I regret to admit that the Red Cell is entirely Japanese," Ikeda sighed. "It seems to consist of former members of the old JRA who have joined forces with militant isolationists. In the letter they made several outrageous demands."
"Such as?" Yakov inquired.
"They want all United States military personnel expelled from all Japanese properties, including Okinawa," the Kompei chief explained. "The Red Cell also demands that Japan end all export to America and Western Europe and increase trade with the 'progressive' societies of the Soviet Union, North Korea and other Communist and pro-Marxist countries."
"Stupid bastards," McCarter muttered. "If their idiot demands were met, they'd turn Japan into a satellite country under control of the USSR."
"If the JRC is similar to the Japanese Red Army," Keio remarked, "they'll be willing to negotiate terms far more than most terrorist outfits, but they won't back down unless they get at least part of what they want."
"Small comfort," Manning commented. "All of their demands are absurd and nonnegotiable."
"The Red Cell must think their secret for extracting information from subjects is important enough to frighten us into agreeing to anything," Ikeda said.
"They couldn't have anything that could threaten the security of the free world more effectively," Yakov stated.
"And what's worse is the JRC might sell information to the Soviets, the Chinese, Khaddafi, anyone else they want," Rafael said.
"Or they can pass on the secret to the process itself," Manning stated grimly. "God help us if they already have."
The telephone on Ikeda's desk rang. The Kompei man answered it. Only Keio understood the rapid Japanese Ikeda spoke into the phone—although the intel officer listened more than he talked.
"The Tokyo police delivered some vital information to my department that may be of use to us all," Ikeda declared. "The dead men at the airport carried forged identification, but a computer check on their fingerprints has identified four of them as members of the Japanese Red Army still wanted for various crimes. They had fled the country more than ten years ago. Autopsies tell us they've under
gone plastic surgery to alter their faces."
"Well," Manning said, unimpressed by the news, "that just proves the JRC is a highly professional terrorist outfit—something we already knew."
"Ah," Ikeda said, smiling, "but there is more. Three of the dead men had business cards from the Hoshiro Fish Company, located on the harbor at Iwaki."
"Business cards don't necessarily prove a connection," Rafael mused. "But if all three men were actually employed at this fish company. . . "
"My people at Kompei headquarters are looking into that," Ikeda assured him. "Also, five of the terrorists had membership cards to the Zembu Dojo, a martial-arts school here in Tokyo."
"Sounds like we have a couple leads to check out," Rafael stated.
"We also have to get our crates, which are still at the airport," Manning reminded the others. "All our equipment is in them."
"Right," McCarter agreed. "But we'd better not waste any time. I think we should check out the martial-arts school pretty damn quick. If the terrorists are associated with it, they'll soon abandon the place and head underground."
"Might check out the harbor operation, too," the Cuban suggested.
"So we have our work cut out for us," Yakov commented. "And we'd better get some results fast. I have a feeling we don't have very much time."
5
"This is too much," Professor Ouzu Yoichi insisted as he marched across the yellow tile floor of the massive control center.
The "war room" of the Japanese Red Cell was filled with computers, international communications radios and other equipment. It was a sophisticated tribute to the technology of twentieth-century evil.
Yoichi suited his surroundings, his painfully thin body clad in a white smock two sizes too large. His gaunt face was highlighted by hollow cheeks and large round glasses that grotesquely magnified his eyes.
"Too much?" Professor Edward Oshimi raised his shaggy gray eyebrows. "You have always known our ultimate goals, Ouzu. You always seemed to believe in them as much as I."
